September 12, 2009

To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'dWith the blood of the grape, pass not, but sitBeneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,And all the daughters of the year shall dance!Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

'The spirits of the air live in the smellsOf fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves roundThe gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleakHills fled from our sight; but left his golden load. -- William Blake